Nemesis (17 page)

“Yet they
failed, Fedorov. You said something about a second Rifle Division that we will
bring up from reserve… the 52nd?”

“Yes,
that is so, and as much as the history seems to ring true to what it once was,
this is an altered reality here now sir. The history is not the same. You
worried a moment ago about Josef Stalin, but if this is the same world I left
in May, Stalin is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes
sir, killed in 1908 by assassination. We learned this in the course of our stay
here, after we shifted forward from 1908.”

“That
is very serious indeed! Stalin dead? Then who leads the Soviet Union in his
place?”

“The
man the Sub-Lieutenant wished long life as we left the
Tuman
, sir, Sergei
Kirov. He wasn’t saluting our ship, but the man it was named after, and in May
he was alive and well, leading the Soviet State, though it would no longer be
fair to call it the Soviet Union. Things we did in 1908 have caused a
tremendous change in the history we now find ourselves in. Our nation did not
survive the revolution intact. The Reds and the Whites continued to struggle
with one another, and Russia fragmented into three separate regions, One is the
Soviet State led by Sergei Kirov. He controls most of European Russia as we
knew it, or at least he once did. By now the Germans are at his throat, and
they have already probably overrun a third of the country. Everything east of
Omsk, all of Siberia, is a separate state as well, and it is presently being
led by Kolchak, if you recall him, and another man was also prominently
involved there, Vladimir Karpov.”

“The
same man who is presently Captain of this ship?”

“If he
survived, though I do not believe that is possible. Only that recall order
makes me suspicious, as I’ve explained. But there is also one more state,
controlling all of the Caucasus, territory east of the Volga, and all of the
central Eurasian states like Kazakhstan. There was another man involved in all
of these events that I have not yet spoken of. His name is Ivan Volkov…”

Volsky’s
head was too full to fully focus on what Fedorov was
trying to tell him now. This other man, Volkov, had been a Captain in Russian
Naval Intelligence, from 2021. The ship had returned from this wild nightmare,
and only to face the Inspector General and a possible Board of Inquiry at
Vladivostok. Yet Fedorov explained he had another mission, slipping out of the
city on the Trans-Siberian rail, only after another amazing journey to the past
by using the same control rod that had caused the ship to displace, only this
time in the nuclear reactor test bed at the Primorskiy Engineering Center.

Fedorov
could see that it was all too much for the Admiral to take at one time. “I will
explain it all in detail later,” he said. “But suffice it to say, that this
man, Ivan Volkov is that same Captain we met at Vladivostok.”

Volsky
rubbed the brow of his forehead. “This story is like an onion! You just keep
peeling away one layer after another.”

“It has
been a very long journey, sir,” said Fedorov.

“Well,
now I must go up and see if I can explain some of this to the Captain.”

“I will
be happy to come with you, sir.”

“No,
Mister Fedorov, I think it best if I see the Captain alone.”

*

The
message came at a little after 17:00 that evening, and
Volsky had been with Karpov alone in the briefing room for the last hour and a
half. It was now 18:30, and the moon Fedorov had predicted was slowly rising
through the mist. The message was short and direct, handed to the Admiral by
Nikolin just before he started his meeting. It read simply:
‘Admiral
Golovko, Commander Northern Fleet, invites you to dock at Pier 7, and requests
the presence of Admiral Volsky and his party at No. 1 Staraya Vaenga, 20:00, at
which time he will present an important communication from Moscow.’

Volsky
had been meeting with Captain Karpov in the briefing room when it came,
undertaking the difficult task of trying to explain the impossible truth he had
finally come to embrace himself. He had chosen this moment deliberately, as
Fedorov had, and had pushed a pad device with Fedorov’s sun and moon data
displayed predicting what the two men would soon see out the port side window,
the testimony of the moon itself, which he hoped would weigh heavily.

Volsky
said nothing to Karpov of what Fedorov had revealed concerning his loyalty, and
the things he had done when given command of the ship. He simply went over all
the evidence they had uncovered, the lack of any visible wreckage from either
Orel
or
Slava
, the loss of satellite and GPS links, the endless radio
broadcasts, the silence from Severomorsk, all the video feeds, which he again
compared to imagery provided by Fedorov, the missing facilities on Jan Mayen,
and then he related the incredible story of his brief meeting with
Sub-Lieutenant Shestakov aboard the
Tuman
.

“Yes,
this is yet one more inconceivable thing, but I saw this man with my own eyes,
shook his hand, read his ship’s log, and saw there the entry for this very
day.” He related what they had learned about events on land, and the planned
evacuation of the 325th Rifle Regiment that night.

Karpov
was astonished, first to think that the Admiral had swallowed Fedorov’s entire
story whole, and now had a belly full of borscht that would surely make him a
very sick man, just like Fedorov, or so he believed. And yet, here was the
Admiral of the Northern Fleet, with over 40 years in the service, speaking to
him earnestly and with all seriousness, and asking him to believe the
impossible.

“Everything
we have discovered since that accident makes absolutely no sense if we stand in
the year 2021, but if the date in that logbook I read was correct, then all
these things fit the picture. There it is, right before our noses, and now I
invite you to look out there at that moon, and review the data for yourself. It
is correct for this date, time, and location, and yet, that should be a morning
crescent, and it should not be up until 20:32.”

“But
the recall order,” said Karpov, voicing the same last objection Volsky had
clung to himself.

“Yes,
the order,” said Volsky. “I plan on getting to the bottom of that this evening.
I gave orders to enter Kola bay a half hour ago.” Now he handed Karpov the
message he had received from Nikolin just before the meeting, watching quietly
as the Captain read.

“Admiral
Golovko?” Karpov knew the name well, for he had once applied for a captaincy
aboard the new frigate by that name, until he was accepted as Captain of
Kirov
,
much to his delight.

“In
light of everything else we have just gone over, I will not be surprised to
learn he is, indeed, Arseniy Golovko, who was Commander of the Red Banner
Northern Fleet from 1940 to 1946. Could all of this be staged? Possibly. But
why? Would our own people now wish to put us through some strange psychological
test here?”

“I
might believe that easier than anything else you have told me,” said Karpov.

“Yes?
Well I will soon see for myself. The port and city will also give testimony. I
think we should get to a weather deck and have a good look as we enter the harbor,
but I have ordered all non-essential personnel below decks. No need to start
the rumor mill. You and I both know this place like the back of our hands. Let
us see what we find.” He stood up, and the two men made their way to the
bridge, where Rodenko was in command as Senior Watch Officer, slowly taking the
ship in.

“Any difficulties?”
asked Volsky as they were announced on the bridge.

“This
fog has visibility down to 100 meters, and none of the navigation buoys are out
where they should be,” said Rodenko. “But the helmsman knows the channel well.
We just skirted Salniy Island, and should be ready to dock in fifteen minutes.”

“Very
good. Take us in. Then the ship will come about to 360 and hover well out in
the bay. We will not come alongside the quay. The Captain and I will be out on
the weather deck.”

Once
there, Karpov scanned the way ahead with an anxious look. He had thought he
would be coming home, and now a yawning hole opened in his gut, filled only
with all these impossibilities that had beset them these many days. Clearly
Severomorsk was still here. There was no sign of attack, but the place seemed completely
different, empty as that hole in his soul, a forlorn and forsaken harbor at the
edge of the world. There had been 100,000 people living in this region when
they left it just a few days ago. Even through the fog, they should see the
tall, squat apartment buildings crowding one another in bleak rows, and see the
city lights softly glowing behind the mist. But it was so still and quiet now.

“Strange
how dark it seems. Could there be a power outage?”

Karpov realized
the very question betrayed his inner mind, for he was still reaching for things
to explain the strangeness away, account for it in some way, make sense of the
lunacy that had started when they lost
Orel
. It was here that they
thought to come for all their final answers, and yet with each passing minute,
all they found were more questions. It was as if the surety and safety of home
had betrayed them, and now conspired with all these other odd events to torment
them.

Then
they heard the plaintive call of a fog horn, and he looked to see another ship
approaching, a perplexed look on his face when he saw it.

“What
in God’s name is that?” he exclaimed.

“Looks
like a small frigate or destroyer,” said Volsky. “Take a close look as we
pass.”

Karpov
shook his head. The vessel had a small conning section forward and a single
exposed deck gun there, with no armored turret, and designed to be manned by a
deck crew. As it passed they saw three stacks, each angled back slightly off
vertical. There the crew of the ship gaped at them from the gunwales, awed by
the imposing size of this sudden new arrival. Karpov clearly saw what looked to
be long sets of torpedo tubes amidships and behind the third funnel, and there
were three more open breach deck guns on the aft section of the ship. Fedorov
would have told them what they were looking at, the destroyer
Valerian
Kuibyshev
, which had served bravely in these waters since the outbreak of
hostilities, but Volsky had asked his Navigator to wait below decks while he
briefed the Captain. Volsky squinted, taking note of the hull number as the
ship passed, and made a mental note to query Fedorov later.

“Well
I’ve seen a few old rust buckets docked here over the years, but never a ship
like that,” said Volsky. “What do you make of it?”

Karpov
was silent, his eyes and face dark and serious. He seemed lost in the turmoil
of his inner thoughts, struggling to come to grips with what he was seeing, and
failing to see, as the ship slowly approached the harbor. Instead of the
familiar modern port and facilities he expected, the place was all too bleak
and empty. Only the distant shadowy outlines of the piers could be seen, but he
knew that he should now be seeing the lights of the city. The Fleet
Headquarters complex was on that very street mentioned in the message Volsky
had received, and he should be able to make out the high communications tower,
its red and green lights winking in the grey evening, which was a twilight zone
of confusion for him now.

“I
invite you to join me,” said Volsky. “Care to come ashore?”

“Sir…”
Karpov hesitated. “I think I would like to think about all this for a while,
here aboard the ship, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well.”
Even as Volsky said that, the muted sound of a military band struck up an
anthem, and they turned to look.

“It
seems we have a welcoming committee,” said Volsky. “Very strange.”

“That
isn’t half a word for all this,” said Karpov. “If any of what you have told me
is true, then how did they know we were even here? How did they format and code
that recall order? What is this all about?”

“I hope
to have my final answer on that by the time I return,” said Volsky,
straightening his cap as he turned to leave. “Kindly have the Watch Officer
send down to the helo bay and have Troyak meet me at the launch with a small
Marine escort.”

“Aye
sir,” said Karpov, saluting as the Admiral went through the hatch to the
citadel.

“Mister
Rodenko,” said Volsky, “no one is to leave the ship, and the crew is to remain
below decks. Understood? I should return within three hours unless you hear
from me otherwise.” Now he lowered his voice. “I will be taking Mister Fedorov
with me, and a few Marines, but we should not be long. Something tells me we
will be out to sea again in a few hours.”

“Very
well sir. Good to be home, in any case.”

Volsky
gave him a look, but said nothing. The 2nd Watch called out his departure:
“Admiral off the bridge!”

Yes, he
thought grimly, Admiral off his rocker as well! Let me go and see what’s really
going on here.

*

Karpov
stood alone on the weather deck for some time, his careful
eye picking out one discrepancy after another in the landscape around them. He
should be seeing the glow from lamp posts near the piers, the tall looming
presence of the heroes monument, Alyosha, that was the centerpiece of so many
Navy Day celebrations. He had stood beneath its shadow so many times, in ceremonies
of remembrance, hearing the same old song:

‘Always
ready, Severomorsk

Protect
the country in hour of need,

And
from the sea, safely cover the town.

We
remember…

Heavy
now is our time,

But
another time will come!

Look
forward now, home country,

At
our valiant Northern Fleet.’

Yes,
heavy now… so heavy… If Volsky’s crazy story was true, then
this
is the
time they remember in that song, he thought, and I am from that other time they
longed for. If this is 1941, the nation is at the edge of oblivion, as I stand
here now, feeling the very same way.

Something
about this spot seemed to chill him, and it was not the cold evening air. He
had a feeling of grave danger, a rising sense of anxiety, an inner turmoil that
left him feeling lost and very alone. This was the very spot where he once
would stand on this ship for the last time, in the year 1908. It was the place
where he would fire his service pistol in frustrated rage at a distant enemy,
and then slowly raise the weapon to take his own life. Though he knew nothing
of that, he seemed to feel it in some vague, indefinable way, a darkness, a
quiet terror here on the weather deck off the bridge.

The fog
still veiled the scene, but he knew where to look, and it was soon obvious to
him that things were missing, different, and the entire harbor and surrounding
area seemed entirely undeveloped. There should be many more vessels here. Where
was the fleet? The harbor should be a busy steel jungle, with lowering cranes,
trucks coming and going at the quays, slate grey warships huddled next to the
piers. but there was nothing. Where was the fleet? Where was Severomorsk? Where
was home?